


Put 'Em In A Stew

by akire_yta



Series: prompt ficlets [258]
Category: Leverage, The Martian - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 09:26:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6900382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>trcunning asked for: Mark Watney and Elliot talk about potatoes. “I love ‘em.” “Hell yes, you love them. They’re wonderful.” “Damn straight.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put 'Em In A Stew

 

It’s a quiet Tuesday at the brew pub when the bell over the door rings.  The lunch rush is pretty much done, and it’s too early for the evening shift, and Eliot had sent the on-duty hostess off on her break early.  He wanders out of the kitchen as the new visitor slides into a barstool.  “Whaddya having?” Eliot asked by way of greeting.

“What’s good?”  The voice is familiar, the Chicago burr distinctive, but Eliot can’t quite place it.  There’s a lot of people from Chicago he’d rather not meet again.

Eliot goes still, but keeps the smile on his face.  “Definitely none of the house brews, trust me.”  That gets an awkward chuckle.  Eliot lets the pause settle, before he turns and busies his hands with bottles and glasses.  “Try the HUB,” Eliot tells the stranger, sliding the glass along the bar so it stops square in front of the stranger.

The stranger has kept the brim of his Cubs hat low.  “Thanks.”  He takes a sip, makes an appreciative noise, takes a longer pull.

Eliot nods, grabs a basket of chips, puts it at the stranger’s elbow.  “New in town?”

That gets another chuckle, this one sharper.  “New everywhere, it feels,” the guy mutters.  He glances at the basket and pushes them away.

“Not a fan? Nah, me neither,” Eliot notes, pouring himself a drink.

The stranger finally takes off his cap after one last glance around the empty bar.  “Me and potatoes, man.  We got history.”

Eliot swallowed hard and raised his glass in silent salute.  Mark _freaking_  Watney chinked his glass against Eliot’s.  The silence stretched out again.

Eliot watched Watney’s profile.  That set of shoulders, the creases in the face, the shadows under the eyes. He knew that look. “It’s hard, ain’t it.  Coming back.”

That gets something that in a meaner man might have been a sneer.  “Been stranded in outer space before?”

Eliot shook his head.  “Nah man.  You own that.  But I know about leaving important parts of yourself behind.”

The look Watney gives him measured him for his boots.  “Army?”

“Something like that.”  Eliot poured Watney another beer.  “Try this one.  Be right back.”

There was a tension in Watney’s skinny frame.  “Calling the media?”

Eliot laughed.  “Fuck no.”  He swung around into the kitchen, for once glad of the open plan design that Hardison had insisted on.  It meant Watney could keep a wary on Eliot without having to get off his bar stool.  “Lots of potatoes in outer space, huh?”

Watney laughed.  “You know, I used to love potatoes.  Fried, boiled, baked, whatever.  Now…”

“You’re not sure what’s going to happen.”

Watney nodded slowly, eyes sharp on Eliot as Eliot moved about the kitchen.  “The psych keep talking about mental barriers, but….you know, I smell fries and my mouth waters, but…I haven’t had, y’know, the giant fucking mental breakdown everyone is expecting, and what if fucking potatoes do it and I can never have a fucking salty fry every again.”  Watney shook his head.  “Sorry.”

Eliot shrugged and selected his deepest skillet.  “Vent away, man, who am I gonna tell.”

Watney mutters something Eliot chooses not to hear.  “You like potatoes?” Watney adds as the skillet starts to sizzle.

“Like ‘em?  Love em,” Eliot said with a laugh.  “When we were living on fucking rat and MREs that were out of date in the Second World War, the guys all wanted hot dogs or icecream or mama’s apple pie.  But I just wanted a cheesy baked potato.”

Watney’s groan was audible.  “Fucking melted cheese, man,” he moaned.

Eliot slid the mess out of the pan onto a plate.  He walked around back to the bar.  “Then you’re gonna love this, man.  First meal I cooked first time back Stateside.”

Watney stared at the steaming concoction on the plate, trying to identify it.  “Potatoes?”

Eliot shrugged and reclaimed his abandoned beer.  It was a little flat now, but he needed something to occupy his hands.  “Maybe.  Try it.”  He put a handful of cutlery and the salt and pepper on the table.

Watney hadn’t taken his eyes off the plate.  “What if I freak out?”

Eliot shrugged and pulled his own fork out of it’s little napkin wrapper.  “We’re closed til dinner service opens at 5,” he half-lied.  “Place has seen its share of meltdowns, one more won’t matter.”

Eliot moved slow, letting Watney claim his own fork.  The explosion of cheese and peppers lifted up the texture of the fluffy potato on his tongue.

Watney took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and took his first bite.


End file.
